Raise the Titanic - Cussler Clive (электронная книга .TXT) 📗

    "It doesn't necessarily follow that any one of them killed Munk," Pitt said. "What was the reasoning? You don't just kill someone in an unescapable situation twelve thousand feet under the sea without one hell of a motive."

    Woodson shrugged. "You'll have to call in Sherlock Holmes. I only know what I saw."

    Pitt continued to probe "Munk could have twisted as he fell."

    "Not unless he had a rubber neck that could turn a hundred and eighty degrees backward."

    "Let's try another puzzler. How do you kill a two-hundred-pound man by knocking his head against a metal corner that's only six inches off the floor? Swing him by the heels like a sledgehammer?"

    Woodson threw out his hands in a helpless gesture. "Okay, so maybe I got carried away and began seeing homicidal maniacs where none exist. God knows, that wreck down there gets to you after a while. It's weird. There are times I could have sworn I even saw people walking the decks, leaning over the rails, and staring at us." He yawned and it was evident that he was fighting to keep his eyes open.

    Pitt made for the door and then turned. "You better get some sleep. We'll go over this later."

    Woodson needed no further urging. He was peacefully gone to the world before Pitt was halfway to the sick bay.

    Dr. Cornelius Bailey was an elephant of a man, broad shouldered, and had a thrusting, square jawed face. His sandy hair was down to his collar and the beard on the great jaw was cut in an elegant Van Dyke. He was popular among the salvage crews and could out drink any five of them when he felt in the mood to prove it. His hamlike hands turned Henry Munk's body over on the examining table as effortlessly as if it was a stick doll, which indeed it very nearly was, considering the advanced stage of rigor mortis.

    "Poor Henry," he said. "Thank God, he wasn't a family man. Healthy specimen. All I could do for him on his last examination was clean out a little wax from his ears."

    "What can you tell me about the cause of death?" Pitt asked.

    "That's obvious," Bailey said. "First, it was due to massive damage of the temporal lobe-"

    "What do you mean by first?"

    "Just that, my dear Pitt. This man was more or less killed twice. Look at this." He pulled back Munk's shirt, exposing the nape of the neck. There was a large purplish bruise at the base of the skull. "The spinal cord just below the medulla oblongata has been crushed. Most likely by a blunt instrument of some kind."

    "Then Woodson was right; Munk was murdered."

    "Murdered, you say? Oh yes, of course, no doubt of it," Bailey said calmly, as though homicide were an everyday shipboard occurrence.

    "Then it would seem the killer struck Munk from behind and then rammed his head against the alternator housing to make it look like an accident."

    "That's a fair assumption."

    Pitt laid a hand on Bailey's shoulder. "I'd appreciate it if you kept your discovery quiet for a while, Doc."

    "Mum's the word; my lips are sealed and all that crap. Don't waste another thought on it. My report and testimony will be here when you need it."

    Pitt smiled at the doctor and left the sick bay. He made his way aft to where the Sappho II sat dripping salt water on the stern ramp, climbed up the hatch ladder, and dropped down inside. An instrument technician was checking the TV camera.

    "How does it look?" Pitt asked.

    "Nothing wrong with this baby," the technician replied.

    "As soon as the structural crew checks out the hull, you can send her back down."

    "The sooner, the better," Pitt said. He moved past the technician to the after end of the submersible. The gore from Munk's injuries had already been cleaned from the deck and the corner of the alternator housing.

    Pitt's mind was whirling. Only one thought broke away and uncoiled. Not a thought really, rather an unreasoning certainty that something would point an accusing finger toward Munk's murderer. He figured it would take him an hour or more, but the fates were kind. He found what he knew he must find within the first ten minutes.

42

    "Let me see if I understand you," Sandecker said, glaring across his desk. "One of the members of my salvage crew has been brutally murdered and you're asking me to sit idle and do nothing about it while the killer is allowed to roam loose?"

    Warren Nicholson shifted uneasily in his chair and avoided Sandecker's blazing eyes. "I realize that it's difficult to accept."

    "That's putting it mildly," Sandecker snorted. "Suppose he takes it in his head to kill again?"

    "That's a calculated risk we have considered."

    "We have considered?" Sandecker echoed. "It's simple for you to sit up there at CIA headquarters and say that. You're not down there, Nicholson, trapped in a submersible thousands of feet below the sea, wondering whether the man standing next to you is going to bash your brains out."

    "I am certain it won't happen again," Nicholson said impassively.

    "What makes you so sure?"

    "Because professional Russian agents do not commit murder unless it is absolutely necessary."

    "Russian agents-" Sandecker stared at Nicholson in startled and total disbelief. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

    "Just that. Henry Munk was killed by an operative working for the Soviet Naval Intelligence Department."

    "You can't be positive. There is no proof . . . ."

    "Not one hundred per cent, no. It might have been someone else with a grudge against Munk. But the facts point to a Soviet-paid operative."

    "But why Munk?" Sandecker asked. "He was an instrument specialist. What possible threat could he have been to a spy?"

    "I suspect that Munk saw something he shouldn't have and had to be silenced," Nicholson said. "And that's only the half of it, in a manner of speaking. You see, Admiral, there happen to be not one, but two Russian agents who have infiltrated your salvage operation."

    "I don't buy that."

     "We're in the business of espionage, Admiral. We find out these things."

    "Who are they?" Sandecker demanded.

    Nicholson shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, that's all I can give you. Our sources reveal that they go under the code names of Silver and Gold. But as to their true identities, we have no idea."

    Sandecker's eyes were grim. "And if my people discover who they are?"

    "I hope you will cooperate, at least for the time being, and order them to remain silent and take no action."

    "Those two could sabotage the entire salvage operation."

    "We're banking heavily on the assumption that their orders do not include destruction."

    "It's madness, pure madness," Sandecker murmured. "Do you have any idea of what you're asking of me?"

    "The President put the same question to me some months ago, and my answer is still the same. No, I don't. I'm aware that your efforts go beyond mere salvage, but the President has not seen fit to make me privy to the real reason behind your show."

    Sandecker's teeth were clenched. "And, if I should go along with you? What then?"

    "I will keep you posted as to any new developments. And when the time comes, I will give you the green light to take the Soviet agents into custody."